Читать книгу The Leopard's Spots - Fred M. White - Страница 7

Table of Contents

Not for the first time during this strange business, Stagg was feeling most decidedly uncomfortable. Indeed, he might have admitted something worse than that, and now he was beginning heartily to regret the overpowering curiosity of his that had led him into his present dilemma.

And he did a bit of remarkably quick thinking as he stood there, by the side of the bed, looking down on that white, stiff face, and when at length he turned to the woman again he had made up his mind exactly what to do.

"This is an exceedingly serious matter, madam," he said, with great gravity. "There in not the slightest doubt that this unfortunate gentleman has been murdered."

"I don't think there is," the woman said coolly.

She spoke without the slightest trace of grief; she was just as cool as the man standing on the other side of the bed. Uneasy and anxious and frightened she was, no doubt, but she seemed to feel no sort of sympathy with the man whom she had spoken of to Stagg as her husband.

"An exceedingly serious matter," he repeated. "Moreover, one which I understand is not to be the subject of any judicial investigation. In other words, here is a crime which is to be concealed from the police. To do that it is necessary for me to give a false certificate. And I am to certify that the man died from natural causes."

"That's why I brought you here," the woman said. "I was advised to call you in, and I was informed that you would make no objection if the fee was sufficiently high."

Stagg wondered what manner of man Doctor Gilbert was. He prudently refrained from comment.

"Very well," he said. "I suppose you understand I shall have to write you a certificate. In return for which you will give me the sum agreed upon. Now, will you be good enough to tell me the name of the gentleman lying there?"

"Oh," the woman said, "I had not thought of that. Is it actually necessary?"

"Of course it is. What name shall I put?"

"Oh, say Richard Vassar.'"

"Richard Vassar. Very good. I suppose that is the name in which you took the house? Now, if you will stay here a moment I will go downstairs to the dining-room and make out the necessary document."

A moment later Stagg made his way down the stairs. But he did not go into the dining-room. He very quietly opened the front door and slipped out into the street. What was going to happen to the woman he neither knew nor cared. That was a matter of absolute indifference to him, so long as he saved his own skin. Not for all the money in London would he have placed on record his connection with this amazing crime. He was going to run no risk of standing in a dock charged with being an accessory in a case of murder. Nor was he going to be followed. He quietly crept along the pavement to the house next door and rang the bell. This was twenty-two, he saw, and therefore the residence of the man he had come out to find. The door was opened promptly, and a manservant asked his business. Stagg pushed his way into the hall and closed the door behind him. He was beginning to feel safe now.

"I am Mr. Montagu Stagg," he said. "And I am here to see Mr. Stokes by appointment."

"Very good, sir," the man said. "Will you please to come this way?"

Stagg found himself a minute or two later in a large, comfortably-furnished library where a man with a benevolent face and a black beard sat writing at a table. He rose as Stagg entered and indicated a chair.

"Sit down, Mr. Stagg," he said. "William, you might bring in the decanters and a glass or two."

All this sounded friendly enough, and Stagg began to be a little easier in his mind. He helped himself promptly to a stiff whisky and soda and took one of the cigarettes from a box that was lying on the table. Everard Stokes regarded his visitor with a sardonic smile on that big, keen, humorous face of his.

"That's right," he said. "Make yourself at home. I thought you would come. Upon my word you and I have met before. You haven't changed much since we were at Rugby together, Stagg. The same air of bland innocence which I must say is considerably enhanced by that beautiful white hair of yours. Just think of you being soapy Stagg!"

"That's all right," Stagg admitted. "And so you are Nosey Stokes. Well, well, what a small world it is after all."

"Yes, isn't it?" Stokes agreed. "Now, look here, we are not going to waste time talking about old days, so I'll get straight to the point. You got my letter, or you wouldn't be here. In one word, what are you going to do about it?"

"Well, I don't admit—" Stagg began.

"No? Then perhaps you would like to terminate the interview now and meet me face to face in a court of law. I always conduct my own cases, as you know, and it would be a fine thing to fight our differences out in public. It would be a fine thing for me, but whether it would be much to the advantage of 'Frank Fair' is quite another matter."

"A good point," Stagg smiled. "Quite a good point. Would you mind developing your case a little?"

"Oh, with pleasure," Stokes replied. "Now, 'Frank Fair' is a most ingenious gentleman. By the way, that nom de plume of yours is an absolute inspiration. It's so round and full, so suggestive of high integrity and lofty motive. And upon my word, my dear fellow, you look the part to perfection. I have some knowledge of the world and of plausible rascals generally; but when I look at you sitting there, upon my word, I could almost be tempted to follow your advice. I don't see how a man who looks like you could do anything wrong."

"You always were a funny chap," Stagg smiled.

"Well, so were you, for the matter of that. But let's get on. 'Frank Fair' is a philanthropist who gives up his time and spends his money for the benefit of poor people who have cash to invest and don't know where to place it at the best advantage. So they write to him and he points out the best things to put it in. He recommends certain investments which, for the most part, are good investments. But, at the same time, he invariably hints that part of the capital might be laid out in something more speculative. Then, next day, the victim gets a circular from, let us say, Abram MacOstrich, the eminent Scottish outside broker who has to sell just the very speculative stock that 'Frank Fair' recommends. So, you see, most of the money goes into something sound, but the balance into the wild-cat stuff that MacOstrich has to sell. Need I remark that MacOstrich and Fair are one? It's a clever scheme, Stagg, a devilish clever scheme, because it enables you, almost without reproach, to milk all your clients of something like twenty per cent, of their investments. A paying game, isn't it?"

Stagg smiled broadly. He was conscious that Stokes was taking in his beautifully cut morning coat, his shining patent leathers, and the exquisite pearl pin in his grey silk tie.

"Oh, fairly well," he said. "I don't complain. But there's no fortune in it."

"No, but there would be if you were more careful with your money," Stokes replied "Rascals of your type are always extravagant."

"Yes, I suppose I am a rascal," Stagg said thoughtfully. "But, after all, it's a relative word. My dear chap, look here. How many men do you know, how many big financiers with whom you exchange dinners would you trust as far as you could see them? You don't call them rascals, but successful business men. By comparison, I am a mere gleaner. But the point is, what do you want me to do?"